Read Chapter 12: Worm in the Apple

The powder room stank of sulfur and salt, a smell Aidan had come to know better than his own sweat. He moved by memory through the dark, counting his steps from the ladder—seven to the port bulkhead, four along it, then the grating beneath his fingers. The special shells sat in their racks, rows of black iron like sleeping hounds, each one packed with Darrow's secret powder.

He had not come for the shells.

The captain's private store sat in a locked chest at the rear, its key hanging from a nail above the doorframe. Aidan had watched Darrow take it down a dozen times since the map had been unveiled, had noted the way the old pirate’s fingers never quite covered the lock when he turned it. A man could learn a great deal by watching what another man tried to hide.

Aidan’s hand found the key. Cold iron, still bearing the faint warmth of use. He brought it to the chest’s lock, paused, listened. The ship groaned around him. Above, the watch called the half-hour. The rhythm of the Wyvern at night was a familiar lullaby, but tonight it set his teeth on edge.

He had to do this. The raid on Port Royal would drown the governor's family in fire and blood, and Isabelle would spin it into a French victory while Darrow counted his stolen gold. Aidan had been a fool to think he could serve any of them and keep his hands clean. But he could not stop them alone.

He could, however, stop their powder.

A small vial of oil waited in his pocket—sweet-smelling, near scentless, drawn from a dead man’s stores at the island where Landon’s grave still whispered. Mix it into the black powder and it would turn to paste, useless for firing. The raid would die stillborn. The Wyvern would limp home with its tail between its legs, and Darrow would tear the ship apart looking for a traitor.

Let him look. Aidan meant to be gone by then.

The chest opened with a soft click. Inside, rows of canvas bags lay snug together, each one fat with Darrow's precious cargo. Aidan uncorked the vial and reached for the first bag.

A sound behind him. A scrape of boot leather on wood, barely audible over the creak of timbers.

Aidan spun, vial clutched in his fist. A shape filled the doorway—not the captain's broad silhouette but a leaner frame. The lantern in the shape's hand flared as it swung up, and Vincente's hard brown face swam into view.

The first mate’s eyes went to the open chest, then to the vial in Aidan’s hand. His free hand drifted to the knife at his belt.

"Gunner," Vincente said, low. "The captain keeps his private stores locked for a reason."

"Then you know what's in here." Aidan straightened, not backing down. "So you know what I'm trying to do."

Vincente's mouth twisted. "I know you're a fool who got caught. Darrow will have you flogged raw for this—or worse, if he's in a mood."

"Unless you tell no one you saw me."

"Unless I decide I'd rather have the captain's favor than your silence." But Vincente hadn't drawn the knife. He stood there, blocking the door, his eyes flicking between Aidan's face and the open chest. Something else stirred in them, something that looked less like outrage and more like calculation.

"You don't want the raid to succeed either," Aidan said slowly. "Do you?"

Vincente's jaw tightened. A long, ugly pause stretched between them.

"Worm in the apple," the first mate muttered. "This whole voyage, I been watching the captain steer us into French waters, making deals with that hell-cat of his. You think I signed on to spill Christian blood for a Parisian whore's gold?"

The lantern guttered. In its light, Vincente's hand moved to his belt—not for the knife, but beneath it, into his waistband. When it came back out, it held a small brass object that caught the flame.

A compass. Tiny, ornate, its face engraved with a crown.

"This is what I came here for," Vincente said. "Darrow's own compass. He trusts no one with it, keeps it in his cabin when he sleeps. But tonight he left it in his coat when he went to drink with the widow. I was going to bend its needle, send him chasing false bearings until the raid drifted into a reef."

Aidan stared at the compass, then at Vincente. The first mate's face was stone, but his hand trembled slightly around the brass.

"You're a spy."

"English governor's man," Vincente said flatly. "Been aboard three years, waiting for Darrow to tip his hand. When I heard he aimed at Port Royal, I knew my time had come. The governor pays well for names of pirates who'd raid his own treasury." He laughed, short and bitter. "And you—you're the one they tossed off the Retribution for refusing to fire on a church. I remember the name."

The world seemed to tilt around Aidan. His court-martial had been a sealed affair, its records buried by men who wanted the scandal forgotten. Yet here stood a man who knew the shape of it, who had called him out by rank and shame in the same breath.

"You were there," Aidan said. "On Retribution. You saw."

"I was on a sloop flying English colors within hailing distance," Vincente said. "I saw the flag come down. I heard the shot that never came. The navy likes to think its failures stay private, but the sea tells its own tales." He tucked the compass back into his belt. "So we're both traitors to something. That mean we're allies?"

Before Aidan could answer, a heavy tread sounded on the ladder above. Boots on rungs, the groan of weight descending.

Darrow's voice boomed down into the dark. "Vincente! You down there? The widow's got a head for drink and I'll not share my bottle with the worms."

Vincente's face went ashen. The lantern shook in his grip.

"He can't find us here," Aidan hissed. "Get behind the shells."

"Where will you—"

The hatch above swung open, spilling lantern light down the ladder. Darrow's silhouette filled the opening, wide as a barrel, his scarred hand gripping the rungs.

"Gunner." The word came out like gravel. "I told you to stay clear of this hold."

Aidan's mind raced. The vial was still in his hand, the chest still open behind him. Vincente stood frozen at the door, the lantern guttering between them.

"Captain," Aidan said, forcing calm, "I was just—"

"Don't." Darrow descended, step by step, his weight making the ladder groan. "I heard enough from the watch. Man saw two shadows slipping below, told me he thought the rats were getting bold." His eyes moved between them, cold and flat. "Seems he was right."

Vincente's hand went to his knife. Darrow's lantern rose, and the light caught the compass still half-tucked in the first mate's belt.

The pirate captain's gaze dropped to it. When he looked up, his face had gone very still.

"My compass," Darrow said softly. "My powder. My gunner and my mate, meet in my hold in the dark. You see what I see, Vincente?"

"Captain, I can explain—"

"You'll explain it in chains." Darrow's voice rose to a bellow. "Watch! Rouse the deck! I want irons in this hold, now!"

Men thundered above. Aidan lunged for the ladder, but Vincente caught his arm, yanking him back.

"No," the first mate hissed. "Fight them and they'll kill us both. Walk easy, face the brig."

Aidan's fist clenched around the vial. The Watch's boots rang on the ladder. Darrow stood aside, his face unreadable in the lamplight, watching them both as though they were specimens pinned to a board.

"Two men I trusted," Darrow said, "conspiring in the dark. I don't know which of you betrayed me first—and by God, I don't care. You'll rot in the hold until I decide whether to hang you both, or throw you to the sharks."

The irons clanked as the Watch dropped down. Vincente's hand tightened on Aidan's arm, and in that grip, Aidan felt a silent message: *Not yet. Wait.*

Darrow turned his back on them and climbed toward the deck, leaving his two prisoners to the darkness and the chains.